Invictus
by MidnightFlyte
Summary: "If she fights Generation Omega—really and truly gives her all—she will be quietly executed after his great victory. She isn't fool enough to believe that the Director will leave a reminder of a rigged fight lying around to tell the truth. If she tries to escape, the collar around her neck will scorch her to death." Maximum didn't beat Omega with sheer skill.


The room that she is locked in has a small, narrow cot, a window, and a door with a slot in it. Her captors put food in the slot three times a day. Although it isn't particularly good food, there's enough of it to keep her alive. The window looks out onto the courtyard where she and the others shuffle around every day, and if she cranes her neck she can see other prison barracks.

She doesn't crane her head. Instead, she lies on the cot and looks at the ceiling. Lying on her back puts pressure on her wings, and they press up into her shoulder blades with harsh pressure until she pulls herself up into a seated position, her chin resting on her knees.

Sitting like this, she sees how ragged and torn her clothes are. There is no mirror, but she knows her hair is a snarled mess.

She feels like a caged animal, waiting to die. There is no point to her existence any more, no duty for her to complete. She was given a task and she failed at it, was usurped from her rightful position by a hot-headed lovesick—

She shakes her head, forces herself to focus. Pay attention to your immediate surroundings, she tells herself. Very well.

The year is 2007. She is in Germany, and it is sunny.

Facts. Simple.

She was envisioned as part of an extensive project designed to stop a corrupt company from decimating the Earth.

She was not intended to be part of this project, but her superiors deemed it necessary.

She has failed.

The deep breaths that she takes hurt her lungs, her air sacs, and her much-battered ribs, but she does it anyway to stem the tears. If she will die, then she might as well do it with some dignity.

All the same, Maximum's face flashes before her, and a thought hits her, slipping in like a knife slides between ribs.

_Maximum wouldn't be sitting here_ says the thought. _She would be looking after her Flock; she would be playing with Angel._

_Maximum would be finding a way out of this place._

_You aren't even as good as that._

_Pathetic._

_Failure._

_Worthless._

She stifles a sob.

_Maximum wouldn't be crying. Even she isn't that much of a failure._

She bites her lower lip—hard—and tries to focus.

Facts. Simple, clean, and pure, they give her a ray of sanity in her otherwise dark world.

She has been slated for termination.

She has been charged with what amounts to treason—she has conspired with rouge scientists [Jeb Batchelder and Roland ter Borcht] to bring about the destruction of Itex. The Director does not care that she was more pawn than conspirator.

She has been pardoned.

_Why?_

An enigma. When you have your enemy by the throat, you crush them and ensure your victory. What the Director has done amounts to letting a mass murderer live in a small suburban community. There must be a reason for it.

Sentimentality? She crosses her legs and rests her elbows on her knees, leaning her chin on her hands as she thinks. In the end, she decides against it. The Director, despite being one of the paramount geneticists involved in her creation and the creation of the mutants, was not a person who would get attached to a child, even if one of them happened to be stored in her womb until birth.

[In her free time, she's done thorough research into her background.]

Besides, the Director merely sees them as projects—failed projects at that. She thinks of the Flock and nods to herself. Failed.

Iggy's blindness, Nudge's inability to stop talking, the _idiotic _bond between the brother and sister, and the way Max dotes over the whole brood while being completely ineffective.

Why were they allowed to leave the School in the first place? The only plausible explanation is that Jeb and several others decided to destroy Itex, their sponsor, with their most heavily funded project. As she thinks about this, she hears heavy footsteps that startle her out of her reverie.

They're most likely about to kill some poor freak, is her thought. And she's right. A door clicks open, and there's a brief rush of pleading, crying, and screaming followed by a quick double-tap. The footsteps pass by her door, and the sound of something heavy being dragged accompanies them.

If she were to go on her knees and pry the food slot open, she would be able to see who it is. She doesn't. The footsteps pass, and she resumes ruminating.

Since she isn't being kept alive for some idealistic hope of a family reunion [she bites down a laugh at the thought of a Flock Thanksgiving, with the Director and Jeb as the parents, with Ari and herself glaring at everybody], the only plausible reason for her continued existence lies in the fact that she has something to offer the people who support Itex. Something of value, apparently, that they can't find anywhere else.

She crosses out the idea of material possessions, as she doesn't even have her shoelaces.

That they would be keeping her for interrogation is also highly unlikely. She hasn't seen the Flock since she fought [and lost to] Maximum. Her information on Itex, while in-depth and completely accurate, has no details that they could not find out by looking through their own past records—the ones that they have sealed from public viewing.

_So, then …_

They want her to do something for them. She stifles a laugh at the thought, but it's the only reasonable conclusion.

There is only one problem: she can't do that much. Nobody would pay for her as an assassin, for one thing, because letting her out to actually kill somebody would result in her running for the nearest news building to broadcast her story. It wouldn't be that hard for her to get on live TV, either, not with the two extra limbs attached to her back.

For the same reasons, a spy and a messenger are also no longer options. Whatever they want to do with her, it will be done inside and away from the public.

She smiles a little, and the bruise on her left cheek protests. Finally, she feels good. Analyzing things has always been her forte, and it irritates her to no end how Maximum couldn't see the stupidity of the things she did.

_Oh yes, like caring for her Flock, like watching over them, like actively fighting to get back to them instead of striking out on her lonesome._

She stops smiling, and yanks herself out of that train of thought. A breakdown would not help her right now.

So: what can she do inside, away from the eyes of the public that she must also be alive to do?

To answer this question, she asks herself: What are my assets? What would a _scientist _[the word feels dirty, even in her mind] want from me?

That's where she hits a wall. There isn't much left to test on the avian projects, she knows that from long afternoons spent looking at computer screens, scrolling through cold reports of atrocious experiments. She's glad for a few moments about this, but then she realizes—fighting.

Of course, the Omega Project. She freezes, unaware that she had been rocking back and forth as she ruminated.

Files only gave brief mentions to it, in all of the research she'd done. As part of their By-Half Project, the Director and several other top geneticists [Roland ter Borcht was on this list, but Jeb Batchelder was not] designed a super-human. The Alpha. It was designed to live longer, react faster, and have a better, more logical thought process than any other human.

It failed, miserably. And so they made their way through the Greek alphabet over the course of thirty years, with several small successes. Each prototype better than the last, but still flawed—usually in some minor way.

She only hopes that they haven't learned from their mistakes, but dismisses that thought immediately. Of course they have, if she's being used to fight him.

But again—why her? Although she is as good a fighter as any, her reputation precedes her, and her lost fight with Maximum would be the only battle listed in a rather thin file.

That's when she hits upon it. _Maximum. Of course. _

Maximum is the one person standing in the way of their _glorious _By-Half Project, the unknowing and partially unwilling spearhead of a resistance. She's an unwilling figurehead leader—but without her, the whole revolt will fall to pieces.

Omega, the champion of the By-Half Project and their only justification for existence, is going to fight her. He's going to kill her, most likely in a public place of some sort. They'll want everybody watching—_which is why they haven't killed all of us yet._

Another puzzle piece falls into place.

If he's being used as their executioner, they must want something to hone him on. He'll be able to defeat Maximum with much more ease if he knows how she works, after all. She's about to be used as a punching bag—but one that fights back. He'll learn how to beat Maximum by pounding her into a messy oblivion, by learning Maximum's strengths and weaknesses from her. So her survival is ensured, at least until Maximum is dead.

Even if Maximum survives, they'll kill her afterward. She'll probably be doped up and bludgeoned to death, serving as a substitute for the renegade mutant.

She sighs, and stretches her legs out again. They've become cramped. What to do?

If she fights Generation Omega—really and truly gives her all—she will be quietly executed after his great victory. She isn't fool enough to believe that the Director will leave a reminder of a rigged fight lying around to tell the truth.

If she tries to escape, the collar around her neck will scorch her to death.

If she throws her fights with Generation Omega, she'll end up as the one being beaten to death in public while Maximum sits pretty.

There is no escape. She's going to die, because of a _pathetic _leader of a _worthless _group of mutants that …

… That love each other. It hits her, just like that. The siblings chattering about absolutely nothing, all damn day?

Love, not absent-mindedness and immaturity.

Max letting Iggy cook, instead of learning how to prepare simple dishes or throwing something in a motel room's microwave?

Love, not laziness and passivity.

The insistence that the dog come along on a raid?

Love, not amateur behavior, not using him as a living shield, not childlike petulance.

Maximum returning to her Flock?

Love, not stupidity, not fear of the world without familiar faces, not obsolete maternal instinct.

She smiles, again. How stupid of me, she muses. That I couldn't recognize what was under my nose.

Maximum isn't a leader. She's an older sister, and a friend, and a _person_. Maximum is not, cannot, and will never be perfect. And that's okay—if she was perfect, she wouldn't be the Maximum that her Flock needs.

I still hate her, she realizes. Maximum is still petty, overly excitable, easily ruled by her emotions, and, in short, everything that I dislike in a person.

_You're still a complete failure_, the voice in the back of her head tells her, and she accepts that. She sits back, and decides upon a course of action.

As it turns out, it doesn't take too long for her to implement it. The footsteps come down the hallway, the same _thud-thud _that signifies impending death. This time, however, they do not continue down the hall, nor do they stop earlier on. From her position on the bed, she heads the guard punching in a passkey to open her door.

The guard finds her standing, her shoulders back. His hand is on the "leash" that will fasten itself to the collar around her neck, but he finds that he doesn't need it. She steps up to him and almost smiles.

"I'm ready to go." Her voice has a conviction that almost throws him. She can see it, and she's glad. Since she doesn't plan on a futile attempt at escape, she doesn't intend to be leashed like an animal. As she walks beside the guard, she hears screams, thuds, moans, and pleas. It disturbs her to no end, and she thinks:

_This is what Maximum would reduce herself to, if there was no escape._

But she cuts off that train of thought. There's no need to compare herself to Maximum, or vice versa. They are two different people, two different entities. She does keep one nasty thought to herself though, as a secret bit of consolation.

_Maximum wouldn't do this. Not for me, not for anybody._

With that, she walks through the small door that the guard has held open for her into a room with no windows. She sees Generation Omega standing towards the center, and behind him is a door. As she walks in, head held high, she notices the smallest bit of shock in his eyes. He expects her to come in kicking and screaming, she supposes.

The guard slams the door shut behind her, and silence permeates the room. She can feel him watching her, analyzing her, searching for weak spots.

She ignores him, and focuses on the room. The floor is hardwood, a sharp contrast to the all-concrete structure of the cellblocks. The walls are painted a neutral shade of whitish beige that she doesn't care enough to put a name to, especially in these circumstances. The room is fairly large, with enough space for her to spread her wings wide and flap. The low ceiling, however, prevents her from being able to hover. There's a small black surveillance camera in the upper-left corner opposite her. Attached to it is a small speaker.

The room is ominous in its emptiness, and it sets her on edge. As it's supposed to, she supposes. A rat in a trap will wriggle more enthusiastically than one merely caged. But despite her unease, she does not welcome the voice that blares out of the speaker. It says only six words, but it is unmistakably the Directors.

"Fight. May the best man win."

For a split second, she relishes the victory of being _right_. And then Generation Omega moves, coming in fast and low with an uppercut to her jaw. It throws her across the room, slamming her into the right corner, diagonally opposite to the camera. She hits the wall hard, a dull _thud _resonating throughout her body. As she slams to the floor, she can hear her ribs screaming protest. Her right arm is crushed beneath her, but it isn't broken.

He walks up to her, waits. She stays there.

_I will _not _let you win_, is her only conscious thought. She breathes in, out, keeping it shallow. Her chest hurts enough without her lungs putting pressure on her ribs.

Omega gazes down at her, impassive. The idea that she could reason with him crosses her mind, but she dismisses it. She's in no position to give a lecture about not getting into fights because of orders, nor can she string a sentence together.

After a few moments of this silence, the Director intervenes, and the speaker crackles to life.

"Keep going," is all the Director says, and ends transmission with a _click_ that resonates throughout the otherwise silent room.

Omega kicks her in the stomach, hard. She curls in on herself, wheezes. When she coughs, blood comes up, and it gets on his hand because he's lifting her by the throat, slamming her against the wall.

Her wings smash into her shoulder blades, and she realizes—_It takes a lot of love to do this, Maximum. I guess that it takes a lot of hate to love you this much_.

It occurs to her that by pinning her to the wall, he's put himself into a vulnerable position. She could easily put her feet on the wall and push off from there, slamming him into the floor. He removes that option from her, lifting her off the wall and letting go of her for a brief second.

She spins through the air like a broken doll, blood flying out of her mouth. Some of it lands in her hair, some of it on the walls and floor. A few drops are on his once-pristine white shirt. His roundhouse kick [on a moving target, she's impressed] that lands solidly towards the lower left half of her chest breaks these few split seconds of suspended motion.

All of her air is knocked out, along with some more blood. The force of his kick travels up her body and she bites her tongue harshly, her head swinging back as she hits the floor again. The camera follows her motion.

Generation Omega advances on her again, and she scrutinizes him from the floor. Although his face has not once changed in expression, she can tell that he's uncomfortable. The set of his shoulders isn't as secure, and there's an unknown emotion lurking behind his eyes.

She doesn't pity him, nor does she emphasize. He does his duty, because he doesn't know any better.

She refuses to participate, because she knows what she would be harming if she did. Although she hates Maximum, the girl has something that she doesn't—a family of younger siblings to look after, people who look up to her. Maximum even has Jeb's adoration, his soft spot.

The Flock is more than a Flock—it's tangible love. She now understands why Max panicked when she saw the Eraser-mirage—because she didn't want to hurt her _family_.

As she realizes this, Generation Omega watches her. He sees that she's close to coughing up a lung, so he holds himself back. If she could gather up the breath to talk, she would tell him not to let his conscience show. She would taunt him, goad him into following his orders simply because it would get him out of trouble.

The Director saves her that trouble. "Enough," is all the woman says. The door that she came through opens, and the guard is there, waiting.

Generation Omega walks away from her, and from the back, he looks pristine.

She stays on the floor for a split second longer, before pulling herself up to her feet despite her body screaming in pain from the brutal beating she's just taken. She straightens her shoulders and faces the guard, ready to begin the walk back to her cell.

Generation Omega and the Director's insane By-Half Project will gain nothing from her. She will not let them see through her to Maximum.

Maximum will remain with her family, and the girl will be as horrible, as ungrateful, as _real _as ever.

She's won.

* * *

It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.

_Invictus_ by William Henley

* * *

AN: Wrote this a while ago, before Nevermore came out. When I came on here and saw the amount of Max II hate, something in my little writer mind went _snap _and I decided to publish this - not out of spite, but to present a different, slightly more realistic portrayal of a character who doesn't get enough time devoted to her backstory.

(And this isn't even remotely shippy. wtf)


End file.
